


I Slithered Here from Eden

by Bookish_Moose



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Broody man angst, F/M, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnancy complications, Slight Impregnation Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_Moose/pseuds/Bookish_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP for the kink meme.  Prompt: Blackwall/F!Lavellan pregnancy complications.  Playing a bit fast and loose with Dalish lore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The grove is a strange one, tucked away in a warm spot in the mountains, sheltered from the wind. The veil is thin here, or so Solas claims.

Ara has never been able to feel such things.

The pounding of her heart in her chest as she stalks her prey, the cool ironbark of her weapon beneath her fingers, the twang of its bowstring in her ears, these are her reality. These are the things in which she trusts, the reasons that Andruil’s vallaslin arcs its way across her face. Her belief sharpens her skill. Her skill guides her arrows. Her arrows guarantee her survival and that of her clan. It is a simple thing and normally, it is enough.

This time, she fears it will not be.

This eluvian of Morrigan’s is not a bear or a boar and she is not the only hunter seeking it. Corypheus is a formidable adversary, if not a worthy one and Ara needs the Lady of the Hunt on her side. She may not fully understand the ancient rituals of the People, but she knows them by heart and tonight she will employ them all, if she must. According to her Keeper, one need only perform them and believe.

Steam curls through the air, rising from the spring. The surface is still without a breeze to disturb it and Ara finds it hard to take her eyes off the way it reflects the stars overhead. Although certainly warm by comparison to the rest of the mountain, the ground is still covered in heavy Wintermarch snow. Ara brushes some off a rock at the pool’s edge, sending ripples across the water, and sets down a soft candle in the space she has cleared. Flint goes next to it on the left, a handful of feathers to the right. She cups water into her hands and pours it at the base of the rock.

_Hear me, sons and daughters of the People-_   
_I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares,_   
_Lady of the Hunt: Andruil._

The words are familiar to her, comforting. Many times she has walked the forest with them echoing in her mind, their rhythm marking her steps.

A part of her dreads what comes next. In the short time she has been away from her clan, Ara has become accustomed to certain comforts. She tugs at one of her boots, her balance faltering as the shoe comes loose. Its mate follows, then her trousers and shirt. Her smallclothes are last and finally she stands, naked as a newborn babe just as the Creators intended, and freezing.  
She takes a shuddering breath and shakes her head. Ritual cleansing is a much nicer prospect in the balmy north, but it must be done, snow or no. Ara shuffles to the edge of the spring. Her calves are cramping from the cold by the time she reaches it and gooseflesh erupts on her legs when she dips in a toe.

Taking a deep breath, she jumps.

She stays underwater, reveling in the warmth and holds her breath until her lungs burn and the edges of her vision begin to blur. Finally, she surfaces and her feet find purchase on the slick stones along the bottom of the pool.

“They have stories about this kind of thing in the Free Marches.”

Ara starts, spinning in place.

“Blackwall,” she sighs in relief.

“My lady.” He leans against a tree a few meters from the edge of the spring, a towel draped over his shoulder. Ara smiles broadly at him and her stomach flutters. She swims to the side nearest him and crosses her arms atop a flat, smooth rock, leaning her chin on them. The water is hot enough that the cold feels refreshing in contrast.

“What kinds of stories are these?”

“Wild elves, dancing naked as jaybirds in the woods. Can’t say I ever believed them.”

“Perhaps you should have,” Ara quips. She catches her lower lip between her teeth. He shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t be flirting with him like this, not now in the midst of this, but she finds that she cannot help herself. She never can, when it comes to him. “How did you find this place?”

He shrugs. “Been exploring around the Keep since we got here. It’s…quieter away from everyone.”

Ara nods. Years of solitude are not easily overcome. Ara knows the pull of the wilderness better than most. It’s more than that for him, though, she suspects. He has withdrawn from Skyhold since his true past has come to light, not that Ara can blame him. Their friends have been cruel, the omnipresent nobles and soldiers even more so and, much as he sees their scorn as his penance, even he can only withstand so much. “Why did you come tonight?”

“Nothing better than a hot soak for aching joints,” he says, his eyes slipping from hers. “Those camp beds are hell on my back and we’ve a long journey tomorrow.”

“Ah,” she says. “Then we both prepare for the Arbor Wilds.”

Blackwall’s eyes dart to the candle and feathers. “Have I interrupted something? I can go if-“

“No. Perhaps, perhaps you could help?” She can feel his hesitation. “Don’t feel obligated if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Their beliefs are different. His Maker is as foreign to her as Andruil must be to him, or was until the Conclave. Since then, she has been learning. It is knowledge she never expected to have.

“Is that-would that be alright? I don’t want to offend…anything.” He glances around, as though he expects elven gods to descend on him and smite him for entertaining the thought.

Ara laughs, pushing away from the rock and treading water. “They’re gods, not spirits or demons. They can’t hear you.”

“Because he locked them away? Fen’Harel?”

He stumbles a bit on the name, but Ara is impressed nonetheless. “You’re learning, _ma’vhenan_!”

“I just listen.” He shrugs, a gentle blush coloring his cheeks. “What do I do?”

“First,” Ara says, “you’ll have to get undressed.”

Shaking his head, Blackwall sighs, his breath fogging the air in front of him. “I was afraid of that.”

Ara snorts. “It’s not bad once you’re in the water. Besides, you must cleanse yourself."

Despite his size, Blackwall is far more graceful than she as he tugs his boots off. He is ever full of surprises, she finds, especially now that he allows his true self to show through. Now, when she thinks back to his earliest days with the Inquisition, she believes she can separate the Warden from Thom. Something in his tone, the words he chose versus the ones he simply said revealed his lie, though she hadn’t realized at the time. He speaks more often now, more freely.

He is tidier than she as well, setting his boots next to one another and folding his gambeson and trousers atop them.

“So,” he says, pulling his linen tunic over his head. “What exactly is this all for?”

“The hunt.”

It is the simplest, the most complete answer Ara can give, but she isn’t certain he’ll grasp the nuance. He is warrior, not a hunter. Were he Dalish, they would be one and the same and he would understand her meaning.

But Dalish he is not.

Although he does not ask, she sees the question lingering behind his eyes, naked as he is. He slides into the pool more nimbly that she did as well, barely making a splash.

“We will hunt for the eluvian. So will Corypheus. If we don’t reach it first, he will and that will mean death for us all. We must strike true and fast to prevent this.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“The hunt is survival,” she begins, taking his hands in hers and leading him to where she has placed the candle on the pool’s edge. “It’s about balance. Success is life and failure is death for both hunters and prey. There is nothing else. Win or lose, live or die. There can be no compromise. That is the hunt.”

Even talking about it makes her blood pump faster.

He nods, understanding finally reaching his eyes. “The stakes are high. You want the favor of the gods. Andruil, is it?”

Ara smiles, wide and toothy. “Among my people, we hunt to survive. Death of the prey is life to the hunter, death of the hunter is life to the prey. Death grants life, life needs death. We follow the _Vir Tanadahl_ , the teachings of Andruil, and hope that we have earned the sacrifice of her children for our benefit. Most of the time this hope is enough, but in this you’re right: the stakes are too high. We need certainty.

“Hare tallow,” she says, reaching for the candle. “The feathers of a hawk. The two most sacred of Andruil’s creatures. They have sacrificed themselves and are owed a debt in return. We cleanse ourselves in the water to honor their sacrifice and once we are worthy, we take their sacrifice upon ourselves. We accept their loss as our own and claim the debt that they are owed. If all goes properly, this ensures success in the coming hunt.”

“You make it sound like a transaction.”

She sets the candle back in its spot and shrugs. “In many ways it is. That’s the thing about absent gods: they can’t directly intervene. We don’t pray to them the same way you do to your Maker. We honor their traditions and follow their teachings and we receive their gifts.”

“Nice and simple,” he says.

“Straightforward, at least. Is your Chantry not like this?”

“Half the time the Chantry can’t even agree with itself about how things work. Who knows what the Maker really thinks of it all?”

Ara will never truly understand humans, she thinks, not matter how long she spends among them. “And yet you still believe?”

Blackwall laughs. “To be honest? I don’t really give it much thought.”

“So strange,” Ara murmurs. Andruil is the hunt, she is give and take, life and death, hunter and hunted. Physically absent or not, she is present in the world in these things. She exists in the hare and the hawk and in Ara herself. She is wilderness and nature and, although Ara has no sense of spirits or magic, she can feel Andruil in the world around her and in herself when she hunts.

  
Blackwall’s eyes trace her vallaslin and she wonders whether she seems as foreign to him right now as he does to her. He is an odd study in contradiction, all dark hair and blunt ears and pale skin that glows in the moonlight. Her fingers skim over the roughness on his arm and his chest and something stirs deep in her belly. It is not insistent, this easy, bubbling warmth, and she tries to push it away. Now is not the time.

He is everything she shouldn’t want, so different from the lithe elven men she is used to. Perhaps it should be repulsive to her, but it is not. Instead, she loves his sturdy, hirsute frame that can wrap around her and consume her, loves it as much as she loves his kindness and his steely determination to be a good man. The former drew her to him like a moth to flame and the latter has kept her happily ensnared.

Beneath the water, his hand finds her waist. His fingers are thick, but long and they curl around to the small of her back. Ara sighs but pulls away. There is work that must be done. She can’t resist pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, though before turning her attention to the task at hand.

Her fingers are wet and she fumbles with the flint a moment before settling it in her grasp. Breathing deeply, she strikes the flint and it sparks immediately, flames catching on the char cloth surrounding it. She quickly lights the candle and tosses the cloth into the snow.

_Be swift and silent._   
_Strike true, do not waver_   
_And do not let your prey suffer._   
_That is my Way._

The candle sputters softly and Ara watches the flames dance. Once she is certain the fire is going strong, she takes the candle in hand and lights the pile of feathers. Blackwall steps up close behind her.

_As the sapling bends, so must you._   
_In yielding, find resilience;_   
_In pliancy, find strength._   
_That is my Way._

It does not take long before the fine, downy feathers are reduced to a pile of ash and finally she turns to face him. “This is the part I’ll need your help with.”

“What do I do?”

“You must take the ashes and trace my vallaslin with them.”

He nods and his hands find Ara’s shoulders, gripping firmly. She hardly realizes he is moving her until her back brushes against the edge of the pool, his legs tangling between hers. Blackwall combs his fingers through her hair, pushing a few stray locks back from her forehead and he tilts her chin upwards.

Closing her eyes, Ara holds her breath and waits for him to begin. She has performed this ritual several times in her past, but never has she let someone else apply her ashes. It is an intimate act, one usually performed by a spouse or by oneself, and when Blackwall’s finger arcs across her brow, she gasps and opens her eyes to meet his. He holds her gaze boldly as his fingers dip back into the ashes. His face is open in a way she has rarely seen it, even since his true identity was laid bare, and it terrifies and thrills her.

Softly, his finger glides down the flat of her long nose and steals her breath away. His pupils are wide in the dark-she can barely make out the grey at their edges-and his own breath deep and steady.  
For a moment, when his gaze flicks downward, she thinks he will trace the line down the center of her lips next but he does not. Instead, he traces down one cheek and up the other and Ara trembles beneath his touch. Desire twists around her spine, coils in in the pit of her stomach, dense and weighty. There are words she should be shouting, thinking, whispering, something, to finish this ritual but they do not come. Her mind and senses are full only of him. Of the feeling of his callused finger along the tender skin of her face, the weight of his gaze locked with hers.  
His fingers leave her once more and she knows there is only one line left to trace, stretching the short distance from her delicate lips to the point of her chin. Even as he leans forward to gather more ash, his eyes do not leave her face. As he returns, his cock brushes against her thigh, hard and hot. She catches him by the wrist and holds it steady.

_Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness._   
_Respect the sacrifice of my children_   
_Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn._   
_That is my Way._

Ara releases him to finish his task. It is nearly done now. Her skin is flushed, radiating heat into the cold winter air that surrounds them. Her heart pounds a steady rhythm against her ribs. He is Thom now, not Blackwall, just Thom baring himself to her as his finger presses into the dip beneath her nose, above her lips. It is fitting, she thinks, that he is himself here in this moment, as though he knows that this act is declaring them joined to the world and to her gods, if not in the sight of his Maker.

He strokes downward over her lips and her chin, then drops his hands to the stones behind her, finished with his task, trapping her between the rocks and his body.

  
“Remember the Ways of the Hunter and I shall be with you,” she breathes, flinging out a hand and snuffing the candle.

Darkness envelops them and Ara surges forward, kissing him desperately. Thom’s hands find her thighs beneath the surface of the water and pull them around his waist. Her arms wrap around his neck and she clings to him, the water supporting her as much as his warrior’s shoulders. Her cunt aches for him, hotter than the spring water and so empty she can barely stand it when his cock slips over her swollen folds, almost where she wants but not quite there, never there as he thrusts. His tongue is slick on hers, the hair of his chest rough against her dark nipples. The steam rising from the pool has curled his dark hair and Ara plunges her fingers into it, mussing and fisting the soft, fine strands until they hang wild around his cheeks, indistinguishable from his beard. He tastes of stew and wonderfully terrible Ferelden ale and of human and there is something so wrong about it that she cannot get enough, will never get enough of him.

They shift in the water as he drops a hand beneath them and fists his own cock a few times then moves it against her slit.

“Wait,” she says breathlessly against his neck. “Wait.”

He stops immediately, eyes suddenly soft and concerned. “Ara?”

“Part of the ritual, the cleansing. I haven’t had my herbs today. It’s a small chance, but if you-“

“I understand. A child would…complicate matters. If you wish me to stop, my lady, I shall.”

Just like that, Thom is gone and Blackwall is back again and Ara hates him for it. “Do you wish it? Not Ser Blackwall, but you, Thom. Do you want to stop?”

She finds herself more anxious for his answer than she had expected. To dally with a human is looked down upon by her people, but is not forbidden. It is the mixing of bloodlines that is taboo. She has never risked it before, not even with Thom, but she finds the thought makes her insides throb with want the likes of which she has never known. Does she want a child? Perhaps not, but the idea, the risk…

“Maker’s balls, Ara, I just want to be inside of you. I don’t give a damn about the rest.” He touches his forehead to hers, panting softly.

She slides her hands up his throat and cups his jaw. “Then fuck me, Thom Rainier. Fuck me like it’s your last chance because if this hasn’t worked it very well may be.”  
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Before she can catch her breath, he is thrusting up into her, hissing long and low as her body accepts him, until finally he is fully within her. And then his fingers are at her swollen, throbbing clit, circling and pressing against the hot bundle of nerves until she shudders out a sharp orgasm. It is not nearly enough to sate the need that has taken up root in her belly and so she rocks against his hand, riding in time with his thrusts. His fingers slow-usually she is oversensitive and squirms away from his touch, he knows this well.

“Keep going,” she pants. “Please, Thom, don’t stop, not until you come inside of me.”

He groans at that, his pace faltering for a moment but then he surges again, his fingers plying the scant flesh at her hip and her clit at the same time. She is more sensitive now and her body shakes with each circle he makes over her. Her fingertips tingle with pins and needles and she can feel the head of his cock stretching her, brushing against that spot that makes lights flash behind her eyes and her spine tingle.

Thom’s pace is frantic, water sloshing around them as his hips press firmly against hers. Ara’s breaths are shallow now, little more than high, keening gasps, and she can feel another climax rising. His eyes go wide as she tightens around him, mouth falling open and he thrust a few more times, short and sharp, before stiffening and spilling into her.

Ara sighs raising herself up in his arms and kissing him softly.

“That was-“ She falters.

“Yes,” he laughs. “It was.”


	2. Chapter 2

Blackwall’s fingers slide through Ara’s hair, brushing it back from her forehead as she sleeps.  It seems to be all she does these days.  Despite Fiona’s reassurances that this is normal, he is becoming worried. 

It seems he’s going to be a father.

He turns the word over in his mind for what must be the thousandth time today, not certain what it means to him yet.  It’s a future he never imagined having, one he still isn’t sure he deserves, but he wants it so badly his chest aches when he thinks of it growing between the wings of Ara’s slender hips.  Much as he has imagined a life with her, the promise of a family is an indulgence he has never allowed himself.  A house, a dog, these are safe things to wish for.  More than he deserves, but still humble.  They are not things of which he has deprived the world.  A child, on the other hand…

It is more than he could have ever hoped.

The fire crackles warmly in the grate across from Ara’s bed.  His bed now too, he supposes, although it seems strange to think of it that way.  The weight of the metal band on his left hand is both foreign and _right_ , not as strange as the things it signifies.  Husband, wife, spouse.  More words that were never meant to be his. 

Ara shifts beside him, tightening the arm she has flung over his waist, and he skims what he hopes is a comforting hand across her back.   

Pregnant women are supposed to glow, or so he’s heard.  Ara is anything but glowing.  It had started innocently enough, a headache in the days following Corypheus’ defeat, a dizzy spell here and there.  Little things that Blackwall had noticed, but attributed to the stress of the last months catching up with her.  If her breasts were swollen and tender, it was because she’d taken a particularly hard hit on the field, if they were sensitive and her skin warm and flushed when he touched her, well, that spoke to his own prowess, didn’t it?

How foolish he had been. 

He had known the risk, that night before the Temple of Mythal, but he had been so caught up in the moment, so Maker-be-damned desperate that he would have done anything, said anything, agreed to anything just to be inside her. 

She had called him Thom, that night.  Not Blackwall, but Thom, and she had been right.  It was just like Thom Rainier to take what he wanted, consequences be damned, especially if they were someone else’s consequences to bear.  Warden Blackwall would have stopped.  The man he wants to be, the man Ara thinks he is should have stopped, but he hadn’t.  Instead, he had pushed inside of her, thrust into her warm, welcoming cunt like a man undone until he had filled her with his seed.  His _child_. 

Still, the memory makes his cock twitch against his thigh even as shame burns hot on his cheeks. 

Carefully as he can, he lifts her arm and slips out from under it.  Being next to her right now is more than he can bear, more than he deserves.  Ara murmurs in her sleep and rolls onto her back, adjusting to his absence.  Blackwall stands at the edge of the bed, watching until she settles, then paces across the room and out onto the balcony. 

The cold air bites at his skin.  It is nearing the end of Drakonis already, spring just around the corner, but Skyhold is still adrift in snow.  One of the servants has shoveled it off the balcony down into the courtyard below, but the stones are still freezing beneath his bare feet.  Ara would make him put on his boots, were she awake, but she is not and so he lets the chill sink in, numbing his toes and cramping its way up his calves. 

He wonders if Ara would notice if he sole away and slept in the barn tonight.  He doubts it.  She sleeps heavily, of late.  Still, it wouldn’t do to risk waking her or to be seen by someone who might report back.  He breathes deeply, trying to rid himself of the closed in, claustrophobic feeling clawing inside his chest.

When they arrived at Skyhold, after those first few days of heavy labor when they had all slept clustered in the Hall, Ara had asked Josephine to assign each of them quarters.  His were comfortable enough, tucked into one of the keep’s many towers, but he had rarely spent the night there.  A soft bed and a warm fire left too much time for thinking, too much time for guilt to creep in, heavy and oppressive.  Why should he be comfortable when his men were forced into banditry or, like Lord Callier and his family, lay dead in some stinking Orlesian grave?  Too much misery has come from chasing his own desires. 

The barn was better.  Not quite warm enough, nor private enough to allow him to focus on anything but existing.  Some furs, a few boxes.  It wasn’t quite a bed, and certainly wasn’t the lush downy mattresses and silken sheets he’d loved in his previous life, but it was sufficient, and that was alright by him.

Nevertheless, since his return from Val Royeaux, he’s been trying in earnest to reintegrate himself into polite society.  He cannot hide anymore, doesn’t want to.  Ara deserves better than a broken old man full of self-loathing and he wants to give her everything he can.  He’s moved past trying to convince her to leave him.  Maker knows, he isn’t strong enough to do it.  She makes him _happy_ and it feels too good to pass up, but it doesn’t keep his brain from shouting at him that indulgence, that comfort, that having the things he desires is dangerous.  People have died for his desires, good men, and children. 

He leans over the railing, twisting the ring on his finger. 

The wedding was a step forward.  It was small, hastily arranged by Josephine at Ara’s request scarcely a week after the world hadn’t ended and he hadn’t been anything less than overjoyed.   Ara loves him, Maker only knows why, and perhaps that has made it easier.  He won’t let his own self-flagellation hurt her again and she won’t let him slip too far.

A baby, though...

He has barely had the time to adjust to being a lover, a partner, let alone a husband, and now to be a father as well?  But the choice has been made, this second step taken to before he even consciously committed to the first.

A gust of wind rises then, swirling through his hair and chilling his skin even through his heavy coat.  He’s lingered outside long enough. 

While he has been on the balcony, Ara has kicked off her covers.  He goes to her, his side of the bed sagging under his weight.  Her hair has fallen back from her face and the worry resurges in his stomach.

If he had known that night how much this pregnancy would take out of her, he wonders, would he have made a different choice?  He would like to think so, but he wishes he could be sure.  Her skin, normally a rich Rivaini brown, has taken on a sickly, greyish pallor and dusky circles mark the delicate skin beneath her eyes.  She has spent most of the last weeks in bed, or near it, queasy or vomiting or sleeping and little else.  The skin around her eyes is a web of spidery thin broken veins.

Fiona insists that this is typical, that the early months are difficult for pregnancies such as hers and that things will improve with time.

Months of this sounds like a lifetime to him.  He can’t imagine how long that must seem to Ara.  It has been all he can do to convince her to take some broth from the kitchens a few times a day.  When she does, she can rarely keep it down. 

And then, of course, there’s the size of her.  The child is the only robust thing about her.  Blackwall may not know much about pregnancy, but he knows enough to realize that this is going to be a large baby.  She’s not quite three months gone and already he can see the round swell below her navel.  It simultaneously entrances and frightens him.  He reaches out towards it, cupping gently through her nightgown.

 His hand barely cover the bump anymore unless he spreads his fingers as far as they will go. 

He laces the fingers of his other through hers and is dismayed at how frail they seem.  They should be strong.  His fault, this is all his fault and-

“You won’t be able to do that for long.”        

Blackwall starts, pulling his hand back.  “What’s that?”

Ara gestures to her belly with her eyes.  “I swear it’s bigger every time I wake up.”  Her fingers curl into the quilting of his jacket and tug weakly.  

They should be strong, he thinks, strong enough to tear the seaming if she wished to, but instead they ply the fabric gently, her short, bitten fingernails snagging on the wool. 

She pulls more insistently and he acquiesces, lying next to her on the bed and pulling her into his arms, her back to his front.  It feels as though he could swallow her up, sometimes, holding her like this.  Nestled between him and the baby, she is hardly there already.  He feels more than hears her sigh and she twists to face him. 

“Your feet are freezing,” she whispers, rubbing her own flushed skin against his nevertheless.

“Just needed some fresh air.” 

It is nearly the truth. 

Ara shakes her head.  “A fine way to get frostbite, that.”

Blackwall hums noncommittally.  “How are you feeling?’

“Better,” she says.  Her fingers tickle the hairs at the base of his skull and her breath ghosts over his beard.  There’s an odd look in her eye, one he can’t place-not for lack of trying-before she presses her lips to his.  They are dry, thinner than usual, but gentle as they pull at his.  She pulls back with another sigh, and quirks the corner of her mouth up at him.

“Better indeed,” he says.  Ara curls into him, and her lips play over his neck.  After a few moments, she draws back, shaking her head gently.  “Are you alright?”

Nodding, Ara lays back on her pillow and closes her eyes.  “Just a little dizzy.  It’s a nice change from nauseous, at least.  Come here.”

She tugs at his shirt again and he leans down over her, brushing her dark, heavy bangs from her eyes.  He knows that tug, insistent and needy, knows that he can’t deny it.  When her fingers push against the front of his trousers, he gasps.  “Ara-“

“There’s something I want to try,” she says softly.  “Dorian read about it in a book.  He says it’s supposed to help.”

Blackwall’s eyes narrow and he tries to roll away from her questing fingers.  It has been weeks since he’s touched himself, longer since Ara has shown any interest, and he can already feel himself swelling in his smalls.  He wants her, but not like this, not while she can barely stand up on her own, not while it’s his fault.  And aside from that, despite the uneasy truce they’ve reached, he isn’t sure he wants Dorian’s interference in this particular aspect of his life. 

“Dorian read about it?” he scoffs.

Ara frowns reproachfully and Blackwall feels a pang of regret, albeit a small one.  “He knows how miserable I’ve been and he just wants to help.”

“I know he’s…important to you,” he says.  He doesn’t want to be talking about Dorian.  He wants Ara’s hands back on his cock, truth be told, but even more than that he wants her healthy and happy, whatever it takes to get her there, even denying himself this contact. 

“Please,” she says.  “Don’t deny me this.”

Deny her?  “I don’t understand.”

Ara sighs and drops her hand from behind his neck to her stomach.  “I feel so useless like this.  I should be _doing_ something.  There’s so much work to be done and we’ve just gotten married and I miss being with you, but all I can manage to do is lie here.”

“Ara.”  He hates seeing her like this, lost and close to tears.

“Please, Blackwall, I just want to feel like myself while I can.”

He isn’t sure whether it’s her tone or her wide, watery brown eyes, but something inside him breaks.  He’s a selfish bastard and it’s going to stop.  Now. 

Propping himself on his elbow, he finds her waist with one of his hands, kneading the soft flesh through the light fabric of her nightgown as he kisses her.   Ara sighs, her tongue skimming against the inside of his upper lip.  She clings to him, fingers plunged into his hair, arms wound tightly around his neck.  He loves when she kisses him like this, how much she needs him, how his body surrounds her.  He loves it more when his cock is deep inside her, but it isn’t time for that now, not yet. 

Ara slings a leg over his hip and uses the weight of her body to turn him onto his back then stretches up to kiss him once more.  His first thought is dismay that she is too weak to move him with less effort, but he tries to push it away.  She wants normal and it won’t do for him to be distracted.  The thought drifts further away as Ara rolls her hips against him, grinding the hard bone beneath the curve of her belly into his cock.  It swells more, aching for the touch of her skin on his and he thrusts upwards. 

Her eyes drift close as she rides him and she places a steadying hand on his chest and sits upright.

“Coat,” she says, pushing at the hem.  Blackwall obliges, sitting up and pulling the heavy coat and his linen shirt off and tossing them onto the floor next to their bed. 

The skin of Ara’s bare shoulders is soft and flushed.  Heat radiates off of her onto his chest as she wraps her legs around his waist and she whimpers when his hands find the underside of her heavy, swollen breasts.  He tries to handle them gently, but the weight of them filling his grasp is tempting.  Ara’s breath is shallow already, her eyelids heavy, and he wonders if he could make her come just from this. 

“Tell me,” he says, tonguing the tender flesh beneath her jaw.  “What is this solution of Dorian’s?”

Ara shrugs him off her neck, fingertips tangling in the thick, curly hair on his chest.  She fixes him with a look that makes desire flare twisting and burning in his chest and pushes him back onto the pillow.  “Lay back and I’ll show you.”

Between the glimmer in her eye and the way her nightdress hangs as Ara pushes up on her knees, Blackwall can almost imagine that nothing in the last months has happened, that she is well and vibrant and full of purpose. 

She makes quick work of the laces of his trousers and pulls them and his smallclothes down his legs.  His cock springs free and he can feel the weight of it bobbing in the air.  For a moment, he expects her to crawl back up his body and take him inside her, but instead she settles between his legs.  He lets loose a little moan of anticipation.  Her ass bobs into the air as she bends, teeth worrying the skin on the inside of his thigh.  One of her hands skims up and down his leg, closer and closer to where he wants to feel her and it is all he can do to keep his touch on her hair light. 

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t be opposed in the end,” she says, pressing a hand into the expanse of skin above his cock. 

He does feel a bit foolish for considering denying her request, especially now that her small hand closes around the base of him, squeezing.  Hot, damp air surrounds him as Ara exhales heavily then presses a soft kiss to the head of his cock.  Her fingers skirt up the sides and back down again and he pushes his fingers harder against her scalp in tight circles. 

When her mouth closes around him, wet and hot, his head falls backwards.  His hips twitch, but he resists the urge to thrust.  The last thing he wants it to make her gag, so he lets her set her own pace, excruciatingly slow as it is. 

She starts simply, all suction and the steady press of her tongue and heat and the squeeze of her hand around his throbbing cock and it feels fucking good, Maker, does it feel good.  Her teeth drag lightly across the tender flesh, an accident no doubt.  Normally, he would flinch away, but today even that makes him moan and lights flash behind his closed eyes. 

Already he can feel the tightening coil of impending climax working its way around the base of his spine.  Too soon, far too soon.  His hands find her shoulders, his grasp sure even with his eyes closed, and they push her back.  She obliges, resting her cheek on his thigh, panting slightly, but her hand stays on him, squeezing a steady rhythm.   

When he opens his eyes, she is staring up at him, lips swollen and red, a stark contrast to the rest of her face, pale and wan as ever.  The dark circles, the broken blood vessels around her eyes, it strikes him all anew and a surge of guilt rises in the pit of his stomach.  This is the last thing she should be doing right now, giving him pleasure, wasting what little energy she has on him.

Despite the warmth of her hand around him, his erection falters.  He breaks eye contact and rubs a hand across his face.

“Oh,” Ara says, brow furrowing.  She rests her forehead against his hip bone and sighs, shaking her head.  “I’m sorry, I-“

“It isn’t you,” he says.                                                           

“It’s fine,” she says.  “I must look a mess, I didn’t think whether you wanted-“

Blackwall groans.  It’s the one constant in his life, making a mess of things.  “I do.  That’s the problem.”

Ara fixes him with a glare.  “I want this, you want this.  I don’t see a problem.”

“You’re ill,” he says, casting his eyes about the room.  “I should be letting you rest.  Andraste’s tits, Ara, you’re pregnant.”

“What difference does that make?” she asks, indignant suddenly, full of more fire than he’s seen in longer than he cares to remember.  “I’m still me.  I know it doesn’t always seem that way, but I am.  I’m starting to get damn tired of everyone acting like I’m not.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“It is, though.  You get so wrapped up in feeling guilty sometimes, Thom, that you forget I have my own free will.  I know whether I feel well enough for this.  Let me decide.  If you don’t want this that’s fine, but if you do…”

Maker, he’s a fool.  One day, he’ll have this all figured out, how to balance her needs and his guilt, but today is not that day.

“You and this baby are all I have left,” she continues.  “You have to stop trying to take yourself away from me for my own good.  I know who you are and I know what you’ve done and I still want you because you’re a good man.  You don’t have to prove who you are to me and you don’t need to save me from you.  Can’t you be alright with that?”

“I’m trying, Ara.”

She sighs, closes her eyes, nods.

“I know,” she says, the anger seeping away.  “I know.”

Blackwall sits up, finds Ara’s waist with his hands and rolls her onto her back in one smooth move.  He pushes her nightgown upwards, baring her stomach, her cunt, her breasts and places an open mouthed kiss where her leg meets her torso.  He’s not good with words, but he is good at this.  He needs her, needs this child, their family, more than he can find the words for.  But he can show her. 

Ara spreads her legs wider for him, fingers combing through his hair, pushing him towards her slit. 

“Please,” she whispers and he is happy to oblige.  This is easier for him, giving her pleasure rather than taking it.  It is a penance he will gladly pay.

She is wet already when his thumbs find the taut tendons on either side of her cunt.  They press up the sides, outside her lips, and he can feel the blood thrumming beneath her skin.  He repeats the motion, over and over, firm, until she squirms against him and whines.  Maker’s breath, he loves the noises she makes when he does this. 

His cock is hard and aching again, but he ignores it as best he can.

Blowing air against her, he pinches the skin on either side of her clit softly and rolls his fingers.  Ara’s legs and hips writhe and she flings an arm across her eyes.  He presses a finger to her entrance, stroking around, but not quite inside, not yet.  Desperate for more, Ara thrusts her hips towards him, and he laughs and presses two fingers into her.  She is slick, so slick, and warm and softer than he can ever remember her having been before she was pregnant.  This, at least, he could get used to. 

He presses his fingers downwards, towards the bed, easing his touch as her muscles tighten around him.  When she relaxes, he presses again, and on it goes, his fingers sweeping back and forth as she clenches and rolls her hips, chasing the pressure and friction. 

Ara grunts in frustration, her hips rising off the bed.  Blackwall slides his free hand upwards, fingers brushing along the hard line of her hip bone.  He needs her to stay put and so he inches his hand over until it rests atop the swell of her belly, pinning her in place.  Ever so slightly, he presses down, feeling the give of her flesh over the taut muscle below and Ara gasps sharply, mouth dropping open.  She covers his hand with her own, holding it where it rests. 

Unable to resist any longer, he lowers his mouth to her clit, pursed and suckling gently as he curls his fingers upwards.  Ara moans, high and loud and nearly frantic and presses her fingers into the back of his scalp.  Already her cunt is tightening around his fingers and so Blackwall sucks more firmly, circling her clit with his tongue and humming. 

Her orgasm, when it comes, surprises Ara more than it does him.  It tugs at his fingers until he can scarcely move them and when she finally relaxes beneath him he almost misses the pressure. 

She groans heavily and runs her fingers through her tangled hair.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she says with a soft laugh.  “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

Blackwall rises to his knees, trying to ignore the way the creak, and crawls next to her. 

“I do love you, Ara.”  He props himself up on his elbow.  “You’ve got to understand how far this is from anywhere I thought I might end up.”

She places a hand on his chest.  “I know that, I really do.”

“What a pair we make,” he says.  “It’s just going to take time, isn’t it?”

Ara nods. 

“Now,” she says.  “Are you going to let me finish before I feel like shit again?”

His cock, still stiff and aching, twitches at the thought.  “As the lady wishes.”

Rolling her eyes, Ara pushes him down. 

This isn’t going to take long.  His eyes roll back in his head as soon as her lips close over him.  She must sense how desperate he is now, because she holds nothing back.  Her hand twists around him at the base, holding him steady as she tongues the delicate skin just beneath the head.  The suction of her mouth, warm and wet, the swirl of her tongue just inside his foreskin, the twist of her hand have him gasping and panting.  Her fingers close softly over his balls.  They tighten immediately and he can feel himself hurtling over the edge.  She pulls down ever so slightly and the tension does him in, relief spiraling outward as his muscles spasm. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his breath slowing.  He pulls Ara to his chest and drags the comforter over both of them.  She shivers and nuzzles into his chest.  “Not that I’m complaining, but you’ve got to explain to me how exactly this helps with morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness-“ Ara scoffs, “-is a bit of a misnomer.  According to Dorian, the nausea is from my body disagreeing with the bits of you in the baby and trying to get rid of it.”

“That’s a frightening thought.”

“Believe me, I’d rather it didn’t happen myself.  But, the idea is that…re-exposure might lessen the negative response,” she says delicately.  It sounds absurd, but he’s willing to try anything to get her feeling better.  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s damn good at it, either. 

Something about the idea still doesn’t sit right with him, but he tries to push the thought away.  The guilt will linger until Ara’s well again, that much he knows, but he can be reasonable about it. 

He must.


	3. Chapter 3

Justinian brings warm, summer air to Skyhold.  Flowers bloom in the meadows below the Keep and the mud left from the spring thaw and the persistent rain of Cloudreach has finally dried. 

The crowd in the garden is thinning now that the ceremony is over and Ara’s boots, supple quillback leather freshly polished and shined, clack softly against the stone walkway.  Her eyes scan the mass of people milling amidst the newly erected statues.  Josephine and Cassandra are at the heart of the crowd, Leliana near the Chantry doors.  Blackwall catches her eye from behind a pot of elfroot and she smiles broadly at him.  He hates this sort of thing. 

Her smile fades as soon as he looks away.

She sighs and presses a hand to the small of her back.  The muscles are sore, stretched past their limits, and her head is throbbing. 

“Inquisitor.”

The soft voice surprises Ara and she turns towards it. 

“Grand Enchanter,” Ara replies, inclining her head.  “You’ve got impeccable timing, I was just looking for you.”

“Everything is alright, I trust?”

Ara nods. “It’s just my back.  I was hoping you might have some suggestions, or a potion.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.  Perhaps we could go to the mage’s tower?  I can mix something up there, if you’d like.”

Fiona’s years of command show, even now, as she turns on her heel and leads Ara through the courtyard without another word.  It is a breach of Ara’s authority, her advisors would say, but she finds that she doesn’t mind.  In fact, she quite likes Fiona.  There is something about the mage’s soft voice and hard edges that remind Ara of her mother and, even though Fiona is not Dalish, there is something _right_ about following her. 

She has almost forgotten how nice it is to be with other elves, how different from being surrounded by humans.  Sera is both elf and very much _not_ , and Solas has been gone from Skyhold for nearly half a year now, not that even he had felt like a sufficient substitute for her clan. 

“The dedication ceremony was lovely, Inquisitor.  Lady Montilyet has outdone herself yet again,” Fiona says as they start up the stairs to the tower. 

“I don’t know what we would do without her,” Ara says.  It is a polite response, though a true one.

Fiona slows a few steps ahead.  “Forgive me for saying, Inquisitor, but I was surprised you chose a Chantry garden for the courtyard.”

“Cassandra was in charge of gathering the resources for it,” Ara says. “It fitting to choose something that she would approve of.  It seemed the appropriate choice.” 

“Indeed.  I was simply under the impression you believed in the Dalish gods, rather than the Maker.”

Ara’s lungs ache, whether from the climb or Fiona’s delicately phrased question, she isn’t sure. 

“I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”

Fiona says nothing, but pushes the tower door open.    Ara is struck by the earthy scent of herbs and she breathes deeply.  Her sense of smell has been so sensitive lately, it is a welcome change to find something appealing.   “May I ask why?”

Although she does not intend it, she must look offended, Ara realizes.

“I do not mean to pry.”

“No,” Ara says quickly. “You don’t offend.”

Fiona nods.  “Pregnancy can be a taxing time.  Emotional distress does not help matters.”

The room is warm and Ara strips the cloak from her shoulders.  Josephine and Leliana had insisted upon it for the dedication ceremony, the coverage it provides Ara’s burgeoning stomach outweighing its unseasonable warmth.  She is winded from climbing the stairs, though, and she needs room to breathe. 

Ara walks to the window and prys it open, sighing at the breeze that wafts through.

“You have heard what happened at the Temple of Mythal?”

“A bit.”  Fiona rolls her sleeves up and crosses to Ara’s side.  “You said your back was bothering you?”

“Ah, yes,” Ara says.  “Then you haven’t heard the things we found there.”

Fiona’s fingers press into the small of Ara’s back and the cool touch of her magic presses even deeper.  “Rumors.  Ancient elven guardians, a well of sorrows?  Quite fantastical.”

“And true, all of it, along with more elven lore than the Dalish have managed to recover in centuries.” 

“And yet you no longer believe?”

Ara bites her lip, not sure that she wants to be talking about this but not certain she can stop now that she’s begun. “Everything there was horrible.  Our gods are not who we thought.   They cared nothing for the Elvhen, only for their own pleasures.  They did unspeakable things to themselves, to humans, to elves.  They abandoned my people to tear themselves apart.  They did exist but they represent something I want no part of.”

“Disillusionment can be a terrible thing.”

There is a depth of knowledge in her voice that echoes in Ara’s ears.  “Speaking from experience?”

“One does not become a former Grey Warden, Grand Enchanter or rebel leader without a bit of disillusionment along the way, let alone all three.”  Fiona’s smile is melancholy, bittersweet.  

“It’s more than that, though.  Everything my people believe is wrong, everything.  And they’ll never believe it.  Imagine if I smashed one of those beautiful glass windows from Serault they’ve got in the Hall, took away two thirds of the pieces and then asked you to put it back together and use it to recite the Canticle of Benedictions.  It’s impossible.  How could we have ever imagined that we might? 

“We spend so much time worshipping gods who never cared for us.  Our rituals and traditions, they mean _nothing_.  I won’t do it anymore.”

“A fair conclusion to draw, when you put it that way.  What feels right is not always what is easy.  I warn you though, Inquisitor, it is a lonely path to walk.”  She pulls her fingers from Ara’s back.  “Your muscles are tight.  It doesn’t surprise me, with the weight of that baby.  They’ll stretch as it grows, but it’s going to be uncomfortable.  You’ll feel it in your hips, too, eventually.”

“It’s normal, though?”

“Perfectly.”

A sigh escapes Ara that she hadn’t realized she was holding and her hand reaches out behind her for a chair, a table, anything to lean against.  She is suddenly exhausted as she slumps into a chair.

“You’re going to be fine, Inquisitor.  So will your baby.”

Ara rubs her face with her hands, fingers pressing against her tired, stinging eyes.  It is a mystery to her how she can sleep so much of the day and still have so little energy.  “But what if we’re not?”

The question echoes in her mind constantly, though she tries not to let it show.  Blackwall worries, or perhaps it is more right to say that Thom worries.  Blackwall is self-assured and certain that he can make things right with the world where Thom is full of doubt and his own worthlessness and Ara can see the fear in his eyes when both their masks slip.  

Fiona is crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle, elfroot from the smell.  “What concerns you?”

“I’m still sleeping all the time,” Ara says.  “I know that’s normal early on, but it’s been nearly six months.  My mother was a healer in our clan.  I have seen enough to know that I should have energy by now.  Instead, I can barely catch my breath after I go up a flight of stairs.”

“Elf-blooded children are…taxing to carry.  Your body only has so many resources and a human child takes more than his share.”

“This much, though?”

“May I share something with you, Inquisitor?” Fiona glances sidelong at Ara, continuing to add herbs to the crushed mixture.  Ara nods.  “I had a son once, a human one.”

Ara tries to hide her surprise.  In all their conversations, Fiona has never given the impression that she is over-fond of humans.  Of course, Ara reasons, she would have said much the same of herself, and yet here she is.  Fate is strange.  “Then you know how this should feel.”

“More than most.  I will not lie to you, it is exhausting.  Our bodies are not designed to do this but they are remarkable pieces of engineering.  They can do this, yours can and it will if you let it.”

“Did you get this big?” Ara sighs, hand drifting unconsciously to the swell of her belly.

”Perhaps.  Your Blackwall is a large man,” she finishes delicately, a faint smile twisting her lips.  “Trust your body, Inquisitor.  It won’t give you a baby too large for it to carry safely.”

“What did your family think?”  Having a human child is certainly not as taboo among her city bretheren as it is among the Dalish, Ara thinks, but it must still be looked down upon.  Despite having been among them for as long as she has, Ara still knows little of the city elves.  “Were they very upset?”

Fiona shrugs.  “They died when I was very small.  The Wardens, however, were none too pleased, though not because he was human.  It was a difficult time for me, as I suspect this has been for you.  I grew up in an alienage in Montsimmard.  My experiences with humans were…largely unpleasant before I joined the Wardens.  But we do not have the pleasure of choosing who we care for, do we?  For all that, we do not care any less.  You must do what you feel is right, not what anyone else tells you.  Only you know your own heart.”

The breath Ara draws is slow and shaking and she finds tears wetting the corners of her eyes.  Fiona’s words are comforting.  More than comforting.  They are everything.  This is not the child Ara expected to have, Blackwall is not the husband, but they are the family she wants, consequences or difficulties be damned. 

She has not told her clan about the baby.  She does not need to tell them to know what their response will be.  They are lost to her, or, more rightly, she is lost to them.  The final tie to all the things she knew as herself, cut in an instant, left behind in the Arbor Wilds with her gods.  Faithless, clanless, Inquisitor, wife, mother, these are the words from which she must craft her new identity.  It will take time and patience, but it will come.

All she needs is for this not to be for nothing.  The child shifts within her, a viscous fluttering she is just becoming aware of lately.  Whatever the cost to her own health, the baby must be safe.

“What about headaches?” Ara asks, tentatively.  If there is something that will truly concern Fiona, Ara knows that this is it.

Fiona frowns.   “Headaches?”

Ara nods. “Terrible ones the past week.”

That catches the mage’s attention and Ara’s stomach drop.  Headaches always worried her mother, especially as severe as Ara’s have been. 

Setting down the potion she is mixing, Fiona rounds the table and kneels before Ara, taking Ara’s hands in her own and turning them over.  Her fingers brush over Ara’s wedding ring and tug, loosening the band.  It scoots up to Ara’s knuckle, leaving behind a shallow depression in the skin. 

“Swelling,” Fiona mutters.  “Has this been going on long?”

Ara licks her lips, finding that they have suddenly gone terribly dry and shakes her head.  “I-I don’t think so.  I hadn’t really noticed that.”

Fiona hums in response.  “Vision changes with your headaches?  Are you seeing colors or spots?”

Eyes wide, Ara shakes her head.  Where there was uneasiness before, true fear has taken up root in Ara’s chest. 

“I don’t want you to worry,” Fiona says, standing and returning to her potion.  “The headache and swelling are probably nothing.  From what you say, they’re mild.  We’ll keep an eye on you to see if anything changes, but the worst thing you can do is worry.  You’ve got a lot on your mind right now.  The stress is not good for either of you.”

Panic, tight and stifling, rises in Ara’s throat and she tries to push it away with deep, steady breaths.  For all her concern, the possibility that something is actually wrong has not truly begun to sink in.  “Just tell me what I need to do.  I can’t lose this baby.  I won’t.”

“You’re going to be fine.  Right now, nothing is wrong.  You just need to relax.”

Ara sighs, trying to slow her racing pulse.  “They’re all I have.  Blackwall and this child. I can’t go back to my clan now.  I won’t lose them, too.”

The other woman is silent and Ara’s words, her worries, hang in the air between them.  Now that she’s been counseled to relax, she is aware of the tension in her shoulders and she rolls the muscles.  Fiona presses a small glass bottle into her hands. 

“This will help your back.  Rub it into the skin as needed. If your ankles start to swell, stay off your feet.  If the headaches get worse or if they start to affect your vision, tell me immediately.”

Ara knows enough to realize that the conversation is over.  She smiles as best she can at Fiona and murmurs her thanks. 

She descends the stairs slowly, letting Fiona’s words sink in.  Everything will be alright if she can just relax, let go of all the uncertainty and turmoil roiling in her mind and embrace her life as it is now. 

A mirror hangs at the foot of the stairs and she pauses to glance in it.  It isn’t something she does frequently anymore-the starkness of her vallaslin against the sallowness of her skin too sharp a reminder of what she has sacrificed-but she does not resist temptation.  Her reflection takes her aback.  She’s forgotten the heavy makeup she allowed her maid to apply this morning.  Fake as it may be, her skin has color to it for the first time in months and her vallaslin is hidden.

Nothing about it looks right.  Is this who she is now?  It is a question for which she does not yet have an answer. 

She turns from the mirror and steps out into the bright light that fills the courtyard, blinking against it. If the headaches get worse or if they start to affect your eyes, tell me immediately.  The crowd is gone, probably into the Hall for the banquet, and Ara weaves her way around the edge of the wooden training ring.  She takes the stairs slowly but steadily and finally makes it to the top.

Before she can fully enter the Hall, a pair of hands grab what is left over her waistline and pull her into the alcove just inside the doors. 

“Blackwall,” she laughs as he leans her against the wall.  Her hands rest on his chest and she pushes up on her toes to kiss him. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks.  “I saw you leave with Fiona.”

Ara nods.  “She told me I need to relax and gave me something for my back.”

“Nothing to worry about?”

“Not right now.” It’s not a satisfying answer for him any more than it was for her, but it is better news that it could be.  She presses the bottle of poultice into his palm and looks up at him through her lashes.  “I may need you to help me with this later tonight.”

“Oh?  I suppose I can be persuaded to pencil you in.”

“How gracious of you,” she says, teeth tugging at his earlobe.  His hand slides from her waist to the swell of her stomach, pressing into the tautness and Ara moans softly.  Tired as she has been, she is always in the mood for this. 

He kisses her again before pulling back.  “But first, your guests await.”

“I’ll never understand why there’s a back route into everywhere in this place except my quarters,” Ara sighs.  “I suppose we must at least make an appearance.”

“I saw them bringing in a tray of those little cakes you like.”

Ara smiles and slips her hand into his.  “Alright, alright.  Let’s go.  Afterwards, though, I have plans for you.”

“As my lady wishes.” 


	4. Chapter 4

The barn is growing dim, now, as the wood curls like butter beneath Blackwall’s chisel.  He blows on the curved design he has been carving, brushes the shavings onto the floor.  The edges are rough still, a few splinters catching his fingers, but the shape of it feels right.  That is the important part.  The roughness, that he can smooth away. 

He rocks back on his heels and stands.  His legs ache-he’s been squatting there longer than he realized, but he’s rapidly running out of time to finish this.  It’s coming along nicely: just the details left. 

Wiping his hands with a dirty rag, he peers out into the courtyard, surprised at just how dark the sky is.  He would have had to stop carving long ago on any other night, but the great bonfires burning on each level of the courtyard have given him extra time.  The flickering light coming off of them draw his eye and any other night, he might have gone to them to warm his hands. 

Funalis has always been his favorite of the annums.  Perhaps favorite is not the right word, he reflects, crossing his arms and leaning against the barn door.  It is the one most deeply felt in his soul.  It resonates with him. 

During his time on the run, he avoided towns as best he could, especially during holidays.  Too many people, too much commotion and, frankly, more celebration and good will than he deserved.  Funalis rites always drew him, though.  All Soul’s Day, a day for remembrance, for mourning.  It is a quiet, introspective occasion, somber and still. 

Funalis at Skyhold, it seems, is quite a different affair.

First, there’s the people.  Even this lower courtyard, near the barn, away from the Hall, and full of mud and dirt, is crawling with people.  Down here, it’s mostly servants, soldiers, a few lesser nobles here and there.  He knows that the bonfire nearer the keep is surrounded by masked Orlesians and well-dressed Fereldans in their furs and leather.  Their voices are muffled, the sibilant sound of a thousand whispers, but he can hear them just the same. 

Earlier in the day, he attended the festivities, as Josephine had strongly encouraged them all to do.  The pageant had been easy enough, the attention on the company of actors the Inquisition had employed.  Ara made an appearance at the midday meal, and naturally she had been the topic of conversation then, for good or ill. 

But, today is a day for remembrance and it seems that Lord Callier and his family are on more minds that just his own.  It was inevitable, he realizes now, that the nobles’ eyes and tongues would turn on him.  He knows full well what he has done, but it does not keep the harsh, idle gossip from cutting deep.  His wife is the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and if she thinks a traitor worthy of her affection and forgiveness, that is one thing.  For him to accept that, however, is entirely another and the nobles present at the Keep have reminded him of that. 

And thus, here he is, hiding in the barn like the coward he has always been. 

A few bystanders at the edge of the crowd have noticed him and so he turns, slinks back into the barn and towards his workbench.   He picks up his tools, crouches again. 

It isn’t the fanciest cradle, certainly not what one of the craftsmen from Orlais that Ara favors when they’re in Val Royeaux would sell them, but he needs to finish it, nonetheless.  It’s more than just a cradle, it’s faith.  It’s optimism and it’s hope and, Maker, he needs that lately. 

Ara’s been putting on a good show, but he can see the toll this pregnancy is taking on her plain as day.  The Grand Enchanter has stopped one step shy of putting her on bedrest.  More than that, she is frail.  Gone are the wiry archer’s muscles in her arms, the tone in her legs.  Sometimes it feels as though she is wasting away in front of him. 

Blackwall shakes his head at himself.  He is a master at guilt in all its many forms.  Early on, when there was discomfort but no danger, he hated how sick he was making her.  It was a shallow guilt.  He had traded his pleasure for her suffering. 

Now, it has become more. 

This is more than an uneasy stomach.  The complications are real and they are dangerous and the fear eats away at him, true fear that something will go horribly wrong, that at the end of this he will be alone.  Her words from that night, so long ago, come back to him, life and death and sacrifice and balance, and his eyes are drawn to the bonfire burning in the courtyard.

It would be as much as he deserves.

He has taken more than his share of life.  A life taken in battle is one thing.  A life stolen, a family….  He is coming to a new understanding of just what that means, just what he has taken from the world. 

It is a sin he meant to make penance for.  He has tried so many times in more ways than he can count and still the debt remains an open wound.  Ara took from him the ability to pay with his own life and now he is terrified that she will make up for that deed with her own and with their child’s.  He frowns, dissatisfied with the way the thought echoes in his head, as though it would be her fault.  The guilt is his as well as the blame. 

Bracing a hand against the wood, he maneuvers his chisel over the shapes he has drawn, slicing away the excess and leaving smooth cuts in his wake.  It is getting hard to see now.  His night vision has never been strong and it is getting weaker as he ages, but he can feel the outline he gouged earlier, can sense the shape he wants to release lurking beneath the wood, and that is enough for now. 

Eventually, the dark becomes too much and he needs to stop, lest he make a mistake, carve too much in the wrong spot.  Just by chance, he turns, looks out across the yard and sees a cloaked figure winding its way slowly around the edge of the crowd towards the barn.  Blackwall would know that walk, that cloak anywhere.  He moves quickly, covers the cradle with a woolen horse blanket.  He wants it to be a surprise. 

He can almost feel her smile even before she drops her hood and shakes out her hair.  It’s grown long and thick during her pregnancy, curls swirling loose and wild around her narrow face.  She’s wearing that damned makeup again, a show for the nobles, he supposes, and he almost hates the way it makes her skin glow against the deep red of her tunic, the false appearance of health it projects.  He is no good at judging how well she is feeling if he can’t really see her.

“I had a sneaking suspicion you might be here,” she says.  “Josephine said she hadn’t seen you since lunch.  The nobles haven’t been giving you trouble, have they?”

“Not any more than expected.”  He shrugs and wipes his hands on his trousers.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

Ara quirks an eyebrow.  “I’m allowed to go wherever I like.  I’m the Inquisitor.”

“You know what I mean.  I thought Fiona said-“

“That I should take it easy, yes, I know.  I have been.  I just needed some fresh air.  The fires are pretty, aren’t they?”

“Ara,” he starts but she presses a placating hand to his sternum.  The fear wells up in his chest, though, and he isn’t so sure he’s willing to let this go.  “If she’s said that, there’s a reason.  Don’t you think you should listen?”

Ara’s face steels, lips pressed together, and she steps back from him.  “I know the reason and I have listened.  It’s just a walk.  It’s hardly five minutes from here to the Keep.  I’m fine.”

“You’re practically on bedrest.  Ara, you’re out of breath just from walking here.  What if, what if something goes wrong?  A walk isn’t worth that.  Nothing is worth that.”

His voice is louder than he intends.  For as much as the concern is a constant presence in their relationship lately, they don’t talk about it much.  Perhaps talking about it makes it too real, or perhaps they just aren’t very good at communicating about this sort of thing.  He sighs and leans against the workbench.  His hands are shaking, though he’s not quite certain why.

The press of her hand to the small of his back surprises him.       

“I know you’re afraid.  I am, too.”  Her voice is soft, now.  “There are so many things that could go wrong.  Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my hands are so swollen I can barely bend my fingers, or I’ve got a headache that feels like something’s sitting on my face.  It’s terrifying.  But, today’s not like that.  You need to trust me.”

He turns, takes her hands in his and turns them over.  And she’s right, they look normal as ever.  He pulls her close, hugs her.

“Just a few more weeks, hmm?” she says into his chest.  The baby shifts within her and he feels the way her belly rolls where it presses against him.  Ara sighs heavily.  “Can’t come soon enough.”

She pulls back and peers around the bulk of him towards the sheet-covered cradle.  “What’s all this?”

He groans, chuckles a bit, then pulls the blanket off.  He doesn’t want to be overbearing or make her think he doesn’t trust her.  She’s been so sensitive lately, so on edge.  Perhaps this will make amends.   “It was supposed to be a surprise.  It’s not done yet.”

Ara pushes past him and crouches next to the cradle, balancing herself with a hand on his pant leg.  She grazes her fingers over the half-finished carvings.  It rocks slightly at her touch.  “You made this?”

“It still needs some work.  It’s-“

“It’s beautiful.”  She looks up at him, eyes shining in the dim lighting.  “Help me up?”

His hands find a firm grasp on her elbows and tug and she rises to her feet.  In one smooth move, she lifts onto her toes and kisses him.  His beard is wet and he realizes that she is crying.  “Ara?”

“I love you.” He smiles, burying his face in her hair.  The bones of her shoulders are sharp beneath his hands.  This is all he wants.  “Will you show it to me?”

Unwrapping his arms from around her, Blackwall grabs a lantern from the table and pulls a chair over next to the cradle.  Ara sits and leans forward, elbows on her knees.  Her belly settles between her knees.  He shows her the sturdy base he has carved, the tall arms where the cradle sits, the place where they will put a soft feather-stuffed mattress and pillow, the handles they will use to rock their child to sleep a few weeks from now, Maker willing.

“It still needs some finishing.  The carving on the edges, some smoothing and then a stain.”

“Blackwall, this is wonderful,” she says.  Ara’s fingers have not left the wood since she sat down.  “How did you learn to do this?”

“My father was a carpenter in Markham.  Have I never mentioned that?”

“I don’t think so.”

No, he supposes he wouldn’t have.  Talking about his past is still strange, so long has he spent being someone else.  He wonders if he will ever be able to do it freely.

“What about the carvings,” she asks, pointing to the detail work he’s been doing on the ends of the cradle.

“Inquisition regalia on both ends, some scrollwork and vines on the sides.”  He moves the lantern closer so she can see the lines he’s drawn but has yet to carve.

Ara peers closer.  “Is that my vallaslin there?”

Ah, so she’s noticed.  “I know the baby won’t be an elf, but I also know it’s important to you.  That’s not-I mean, that’s alright, isn’t it?”

Her face is tense, suddenly, jaw clenched.  She’s been dodgy about the Dalish since they found out about the baby, although they haven’t talked about it.  He assumed she would at least want to share her culture with their child, even though he or she will be human, but perhaps that’s wrong. 

She smiles tightly. “It’s lovely.”

“I’ll come up with something else to fill the space,” he says quickly.

“No, no.  I sound awful and ungrateful, don’t I?”  She drops her face into her hands.  “I just, I don’t want our child to have anything to do with that.”

“Because it won’t be an elf?”

“What?  No,” Ara says.  “Why would you think that?”

He’s making a royal mess of things.  “I just mean that I know you’ve been a little…out of sorts since we found out the baby.”

Ara sighs.  “It’s not that.  I love this baby more than anything, human or not.”

“What is it, then, Ara?”

“You were there,” she says.  Her voice is barely a whisper, her face half shrouded in darkness.  “The Temple of Mythal, you saw it all.”

“I…don’t understand?”

She reaches out and laces her fingers through his.  “My whole life, I’ve been a hunter.  It’s what I was born to.  I belonged to Andruil long before I had this vallaslin on my face.  Imagine my surprise when I found out just what that meant, what my god stood for and thought of my people.  The horrible things she did and stood for and allowed to happen.  I don’t want that life for me and I don’t want it for my child.”

Blackwall squeezes her hands in his.  He knows the feeling, having everything you value ripped out from under you.  “Why didn’t you say anything?  That was months ago.”

Ara sighs, shrugs.  “Didn’t know how.  I’m still not sure what to make of it all.  Half the time it made me sick to even think about.  Then there was the baby, and that seemed more important.”

“What a pair we make,” he says, laughing ruefully.  “So many fucking secrets.  We need to start talking, don’t we?”

“I suppose so.”

“While we’re on the subject...”  He goes to his bag of tools and pulls out a letter and small package.  Another surprise he hadn’t intended to let into the open quite so soon.  He’s not sure this one will go over any better. 

Writing Ara’s clan, he realizes now, was a mistake.  She’s been so sick for so long, he had hoped that her Keeper might have some advice, a ritual or offering, anything to ease Ara’s pain and help their child into the world in harmony with its mother’s gods.  He hadn’t known that they weren’t her gods anymore, nor that their relationship was so very taboo. 

Ara opens the letter.  Her eyes scan quickly, widening as she realizes what he’s done.  “You told them?”

He remembers the keeper’s words well, biting and passive aggressive.  When he read the letter, he hadn’t intended to show it to Ara, only to give her the little package that had accompanied it, but in the interest of full disclosure, it’s her right.

“I’m sorry.  I just thought you might want-“

“What, for my clan to reject me?” Her voice shakes.

“I didn’t know-“

“How could you do this without talking to me first?”  She gets to her feet and stalks away from him. 

“I didn’t know you hadn’t told them about the baby.  I thought there might be something that could help, a ceremony or an offering or something.”

“I don’t want their rituals.  Creators only know what they actually mean.”  Ara strokes the nose of her hart in its stall and Blackwall approaches, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off.  “I just need some time.”

He nods, backing away.  “Do you need any help back to the Keep?”

Ara shakes her head, wiping tears from her eyes, before raising her hood and slipping back out into the courtyard. 

Blackwall sighs, picks up the small, wrapped parcel from the floor and slips it into his pocket.  Maker, he could use a drink.


	5. Chapter 5

The Herald’s Rest is filled to bursting when Blackwall steps through the door and he almost turns and walks right back out.  The last thing he needs right now is to be surrounded by whispering Orlesians.  He is halfway out the door when a hand catches his elbow and drags him towards the stairs.  Trying not to stumble, he follows along, marveling at how the crowd parts around him before he looks up.

Bull, of course. 

He follows the Qunari up the stairs, finally able to breathe once they are above the bulk of the crowd.  The second level of the tavern is less crowded, but there are still too many people for Blackwall’s liking.  Bull’s too, apparently, because they carry on until the reach the third.  It is nearly empty, here, save Dorian, Bull’s Chargers, and a large cask of what he can only assume is ale. 

“Well,” Dorian says.  “That’s not another keg.”

“Found him down in the middle of all those masks.  I couldn’t just leave him there.”

Blackwall sighs.  “I’m not some damned lost puppy.”

“Of course not,” Dorian says absently.  He presses a mug of ale into Blackwall’s hands.    “I’m surprised to see you here, Blackwall.  Shouldn’t you be with our dear Inquisitor?”

“Not sure she thinks so right now.”  He takes a draught of ale, grimacing at the bitterness.  As long as they’ve been at Skyhold, he’s never developed a taste for the stuff, but he’s not in the mood tonight to turn down whatever’s offered. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Bull fills his own tankard, tilting the cask forward on the table to get the last of the liquid from it, and knocks his mug against Blackwall’s, sloshing ale on the floor.  “Krem!  Take Stitches and get that cask from the storeroom.  We’re running dry.”

Blackwall paces to the balcony railing and leans against it.  Dorian leans next to him, back to the rail, and Bull pulls up a chair, plopping his feet between the two of them.

“I’m a fucking idiot, that’s all.”  He waits, thinking perhaps that one of them will protest, but they don’t.  He deserves that, he supposes.

“What did you do?” Dorian’s voice is not as judging as it might once have been.  Blackwall isn’t sure he would call them close, but they are friends, at least, and that’s something.  It’s been so long since he’s had someone he can talk to, someone who isn’t Ara. 

Rubbing a hand over his face, he sighs.  “I wrote a letter I shouldn’t have.”

“Must’ve been some letter,” Bull says.

“She didn’t tell her clan about the baby,” Blackwall says.  “Maker, how was I supposed to know that if she didn’t tell me?  I wrote her Keeper, asked if there was anything she could send that might help with the delivery.  Having a baby is a big thing, they must have some traditions for it, I figured.”

“I take it that didn’t go over well.”  Dorian’s voice is soft, knowing.  He and Ara are deviants, both, in the eyes of their people.

“Oh, her Keeper sent some moss or something along.  I suppose Ara would know what to do with it, but she doesn’t want it.  Says she doesn’t want anything to do with the Dalish anymore.  Of course her Keeper made it quite clear that the clan doesn’t want anything to do with her now that she’s having a baby with me.  What a fucking mess.”

“Yep,” Bull says.

“Thank you, Bull.  So helpful.”  Dorian rolls his eyes.  “Surely, Blackwall, you must have known that your relationship would be a sore spot for her clan.”

Blackwall shrugs.  “I suppose.  I never thought about it much.  Ara was always so committed to her beliefs, I figured she wouldn’t be with me if it was too much of an issue.”

“We don’t always get a choice in who we care for.” Dorian’s eyes slide across Bull’s face. 

Bull leans his chair back and smirks.  “We can choose what we act on, though.” 

“Not everyone has your self-control, Bull.  And even you were upset enough when you became Tal-Vashoth.  It’s exactly the same situation.”

“No,” Blackwall says.  “It’s not.  Bull had a choice.  He knew the consequences when he made his decision and he did it anyway.  Ara didn’t.”

Dorian raises and eyebrow and Blackwall realizes how that sounds, tries to clarify. 

“Not like that.  When we-“ he gestures vaguely, hoping they understand, “she told me she hadn’t taken her herbs that morning.  Asked if I wanted to stop.”

“You said no.”  Bull drains his tankard and goes to refill it from the cask his men have brought up from the storeroom and opened.

Blackwall nods.  “I was a selfish bastard and said no.”

“Oh,” Dorian says, shaking his head.  “Do stop beating yourself up over it.  You’re entirely negating her agency in the situation.  Frankly, it’s selfish.  Believe me, if she hadn’t accepted the risk, you wouldn’t have gotten the choice.  That’s not the kind of decision a person makes lightly, especially not one as fastidious as our Inquisitor.”

“If that’s true, if she was prepared for it, then why is she so upset now?  If she knew what would happen if she got pregnant?” 

“It’s an identity issue.  Imagine, coming to realize that the thing you want most in the world is diametrically opposed to everything you were brought up to value.  It’s not an easy process to go through.”  If anyone would know, Blackwall reasons, it’s Dorian.  “Her whole life, she’s been Dalish.  She’s been one of ‘the people’.  Now she’s not, which begs the question: who is she?”

Blackwall is silent.  He swirls the last of the ale in his tankard, watches it slop around in the bottom of the cup, then downs it in a long, deep swallow. 

“You’re right,” Dorian continues.  “She always knew what the consequences would be.  But, if she didn’t tell anyone, she didn’t have to face them.  You’ve forced her to confront the issue.  Was that your place to do?  Probably not, but you didn’t know.”

“Like I said, a fucking mess.”

Bull laughs.  “You’re a glutton for punishment, Blackwall.  That’s what this is.  Don’t make this about you-it’s about her.”

“I’m not-“

“Just be there for her,” Bull says.  “Be patient.  She’ll sort it all out.  She’s a tough cookie.”

Blackwall nods, sets his tankard on the railing, scrubs his hands over his face again.  “I should probably go find her, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Probably a good idea.”   Bull winks at him.

“Thanks for the drink.”

***

Their room is dark when he returns.  It is too warm for a fire and the candles have been pinched out already so Blackwall must feel his way through the blackness once he reaches the top of the stairs.  He stubs his foot once on the edge of that damned settee they never use but manages to make it to his side of the bed otherwise with little incident. 

His knees creak as he bends to tug his boots off-too many hours kneeling working on the cradle, he supposes.  Although he knows he should fold his shirt, hang it up or toss it in the hamper, he is bone tired suddenly and so he drops it along with his trousers and smalls on the floor beside his boots.  He can deal with them tomorrow.

The mattress gives around him as he slips beneath the covers, curls onto his side.  As his eyes adjust to the dark, he is surprised to find Ara awake and watching him. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, reaching out to press a hand to his chest.

Blackwall wraps his hand around hers.  “I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“I could have said something.  I should have.  It was a lovely gesture,” she sighs.  “I appreciate it.  Really, I do.”

Ara lifts up on her elbow, kisses him gently, her lips soft on his own.  Her fingers tangle in his hair.  Maker, it needs cutting more than he thought because she can fist a handful at the back of his neck.  She sighs, pulls back and nestles against her pillow. 

“Everything’s going to be alright, won’t it?” she asks.

“I think so,” he says. “I hope so.”

Turning her back to him, Ara nestles against his body and pulls one of his arms over her.  It settles into the scant space between her breasts and her belly and he tucks her head beneath his chin.  Her legs tangle with his, a few stray strands of her hair tickle his nose, her breath ghosts across his forearm and he wants to stay here like this forever.  Everything is so much easier like this, just the two of them.  No Orlesians, no Dalish clans, no mess.

Ara’s breathing has become soft and steady and Blackwall thinks she’s asleep until she sighs.

“You know, sometimes-“ she makes a funny little whining laugh, “sometimes I wonder whether all these problems I’ve been having are my fault.  I know that’s silly, but…  The way I was raised, we did all these things to win the favor of the gods.  Sacrifices and ceremonies and vallaslin and all of it.  But, the thing is, even our own stories tell us that the gods can’t hear us, anymore.  They can’t intervene.”

“Then why do them?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?  The way it was explained to me is that the gods are gods because they embody these primal forces that exist in the world.  Sacrifice, balance, death, life, nature.  Even though the gods don’t physically exist where they can intervene anymore, those forces do.  That’s what our traditions honor.”

 “Ah, yes,” Blackwall says.  “I think I’ve heard you say that before.”

Ara laughs softly.  “Probably.  I don’t want to worship those gods anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in them, if that makes any sense.  Those forces exist, whether I want them to or not and I’m not doing anything to appease them.  I don’t mind taking the risk myself, but if it hurts our child, maybe I’m making a mistake.”

He nuzzles one of her ears and pulls her closer.  “If you think these complications are because of some debt to the universe, that’s probably my fault, not yours.  Life for life and all that.  I’m the murderer here.”

 “No.”  Ara’s tone is forceful.  “You’ve made your amends.  You’re a good man, Thom.”

She does love calling him that, whether he likes it or not.  Perhaps it’s good.  It keeps him grounded, reminds him who he is, who he needs to make himself be.  There’s a part of him that hopes she isn’t right, though, because as much as she protests, if there’s a debt to be paid, it’s his.  If he loses either of them, he doesn’t think he could forgive himself that.

And so he shakes his head, presses his hand flat to the top of her stomach and feels his child nudge him back.  A wondrous thing, he thinks. 

He doesn’t know what kind of father he’ll make.  Certainly not the one their child deserves, but he’s going to try.  Maker’s balls, is he going to try, if they can only get there.  Just a few more weeks, he keeps telling himself, just a few more weeks. 

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am.”

“Ara, if your traditions are important to you, what does it matter if they used to mean something different?”

She ‘hmm’s and covers his hand with hers. 

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.  I don’t know…I don’t know if I’m ready to think about that quite yet.”  She breathes deeply, turns her face to his.  “I’m so tired of worrying about this.  Distract me?”

She turns on a lark these days, but who is he to turn her down?  Too weak a man, that’s for damned sure. 

Smirking, he slides his fingers into her hair, strokes the shell of her ear and watches her shiver in his arms.  She licks her lips.

 Oh, he can be distracting, if that’s what she wants.

The tendon on the side of her neck is taut as he skims a finger down it, her throat bared to his touch.  Already, her breath is shallow, fast.  It seems the more pregnant she is, the easier it is to get her dripping for him.  He suspects if he were to run his hands down her body, slip them between her thighs, she would already be wet, but he’s not going to, not yet.  He wants her writhing before then. 

When he drags his fingers from her neck down her side, across the stretched muscles, she groans, strains her mouth towards him for a kiss.  He pulls back, just beyond her reach.  When he drags his hand lower, cups the curve of her belly and presses firmly, her hips shift, restless and seeking.

Ara drops her head back onto his shoulder, her breath, sexy little shudders that he can feel all the way down to his cock, hot against his neck.  Blackwall ghosts his fingers up the length of her thigh, pulls it over his own legs.  Maker, she’s practically trembling and he’s hardly touched her at all. 

Except that’s not quite true, is it, he realizes.  His cock is aching now, bobbling beneath the blanket in time with the pumping of his heart, and now that he’s spread her legs, it’s practically rutting itself against the wet heat of her.  Unable to resist, he flicks his hips forward and the head of his cock buts against her clit, swollen and throbbing both of them.  His fingers draw circles on the inside of her thigh, soft, tender skin just south of where her leg and body meet and she lets out a moan so desperate, he cannot help but press his face into the crook of her neck, kiss her there, taste the sheen of sweat that has gathered at her hairline and breathe deep the rich scent of her. 

She twists her head, burying her face in the pillow, and he pulls the pointed tip of her ear into his mouth, traces the gentle folds of cartilage with his tongue.  Her voice is soft, murmuring something over and over, and he can’t quite make out the words until his fingers slide just to the slides of her clit and she gasps _please_.

When he pulls his hand back she whines, but it turns into a deep, hearty groan as he takes his cock in hand, presses it against her cunt and slides into her.  The pressure of her tight around his is dizzyingly good, fucking perfect and he pushes steadily until he is entirely sheathed.  Now free, his fingers dip into her wetness and circle her clit, light and fast.  They dance in slick rounds and her hips twist, push back against him until she is fucking herself on his cock. 

Panting, Ara twists her torso, presses her forehead to his.  Her face is concentration, hard and focused, and her hand grips his forearm as if to steady herself.  Blackwall rolls his hips, thrusting into her as she pushes back and her eyes snap open.  She kisses him, them, hard and sloppy, teeth pulling at his lips.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, fingers tightening on his arm, cunt tightening around his cock.  “Don’t you dare.”

And, of course, he doesn’t.  He thrusts, thrusts even as she clenches around him, grinds and rocks into her when, finally, she her back arches and she cries out.  His own release hovers just out of reach, balls tight and tense, until she relaxes, soft and wet and warm around him.  A few short flicks of his hips and he stills as well, spending himself inside her with a soft grunt. 

They lay, entwined, breath calming and Ara reaches out to press another kiss to his collar bone. 

“Quite the distraction,” she mutters into his hair.  Then she tosses the covers back, slides off of him and out of the bed in one move, as gracefully as she can manage, he presumes to go clean up. 

Blackwall rolls onto his back, arms crossed behind his head.  “I do what I can, my lady.”

“Have you always been this smug?” Ara calls out. 

“Probably.” 

“Pity, I’ve never noticed.” 

She crawls back into bed, settling against his chest and settling the heavy comforter over them both.  He loves the way she arranges him, placing his limbs around herself just so, as if he is just another accessory to help her sleep.   It is casual and presumptive and familiar, all the things he never thought he would have. 

He kisses the top of her head.  Soon, he hopes, such quiet nights will be out of the question, at least for a few months.  Just a few more weeks, he tells himself.  Just a few more weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

The Hunter’s Moon looms large and orange over the peaks surrounding Skyhold. 

Ara has seen many such moons in her lifetime, has hunted and feasted under their light. Somewhere far to the north, Clan Lavellan is doing so now, or so she suspects. She doubts that they have become so integrated into human society in Wycome that they have abandoned this tradition, although she cannot be certain. 

If she were there now, instead of here on her balcony… It’s not a productive line of thought, but she indulges herself. The sting of exile is less sharp now, replaced by a waxing nostalgia. 

She closes her eyes, breathes in the unseasonably warm, earthy air. 

The forest quiet around as she stalks, fleet-footed, after her prey. Wind tugging at the straps of her armor, catching at wisps of her hair. The twang of her bowstring. Later, fat deer roasting over an open fire, dry herbs and spices curling in the smoky air. Roots and vegetables stewing in fragrant broth. Music, light and metallic. 

She does not imagine her people. The hunters, laughing and clapping one another on their backs, the hahren weaving a tale for the children of the clan. The Keeper standing watch over them all. She does not imagine them. 

The child twists, low and restless in her belly. Ara’s breath catches and she presses a hand to the hard bulge. This is her clan now. This is her family and she will not trade it for anything. The muscles tighten beneath her hand and she breathes deep and slow. There’s no pain, not yet, and the rigidity fades soon enough. They are almost at the end of this. 

It’s a nice change, this sense of peace. She’s been so tightly wound for so long, afraid that she won’t even make it to this point. But she has, huge and heavy and stretched farther than she thought possible, and all that’s left now is to see it through. 

Her mother would laugh at her, she knows. Ara has seen her bring enough babies into the world to know that delivery is anything but predictable. She has a battle ahead of her, but it is one she knows she can win. She knows what to expect and that will help. She does not fear the inevitable pain. That will help more. The child within her is fully-formed, ready to meet the world, and Ara is equally ready for this to be done, or nearly so. 

There is one task that remains.

The flint and metal sit heavy in her hand. Ara rolls them in her fingers, hefting the weight of them. A noise behind her catches her attention and she turns her head. The balcony door creaks open and her husband steps out. 

“Mind some company?” he asks. “It’s a nice night.”

“Come sit,” she says, patting the stone behind where she sits cross-legged. 

His body is warm and she leans back against him. It isn’t cold out, but the solidity of him eases her muscles and her mind. He slides his hands along her thighs and rests his chin on her shoulder, presses a soft kiss to her neck. “What are you doing out here?”

“Something I should have done before now.”

“Is this that moss?” he picks up the little ball of vegetation and holds it up to his nose, sniffing it. 

Ara laughs, snatching it back. 

“Yes. Technically,” she says, ”this is a woman’s ceremony, but I think we can make an exception.”

“You’ve decided to go through with it, then, after all?” he asks. 

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about. There are many things that my people believed in ancient times, many thing my gods did that I cannot abide, but my people’s traditions are so different now they can’t rightly be called the same thing.”

Truthfully, Ara has no idea what she believes anymore. Her faith was true, then it was shattered. She is picking up the pieces, slowly, but she is not sure what shape they will make when she fits them together again. What she does know is that she wants them to be whole again. She misses that certainty, the sense of connection to her people, even if it is only through tradition. Much as she wants to be, she doesn’t think that she’s strong enough to truly give that up, especially not now. 

She waits for Blackwall to respond, but he does not. He is still and steady behind her as the baby shifts between the wings of her hips. Ara nods to herself. It is time to finish this. 

Raising the moss to her nose and breaking a piece between her fingers, she closes her eyes and inhales the sweet, vegetal scent. It is the smell of aravels, of her mother, a link between the home she has left behind and the child that is yet to come. Smiling, she sets it on the metal plate that sits before her and reaches for the flint. She nestles it into the dried plant and strikes down with the metal bar until a spark catches. Once the moss begins to burn, Ara lifts the plate. Shielding the small flame with her hand, she blows softly until the little plant is well and truly aflame. She sets it back on the stone and leans into Blackwall’s chest. 

Fragrant smoke curls into the dark sky and the moss crackles. 

Ara sighs.

They sit until the moss is a pile of ashes, until the pile barely smolders. Finally, Ara pushes herself upright.

“Is that it?”

“That’s it. A simple ritual for a simple task.” Her mother’s words. She hopes they will prove true.

Blackwall stands and offers Ara his hand. She takes it in one of hers, the plate in the other, and gets slowly to her feet. For what feels like the thousandth time, she longs for her old body back, her balance and strength. Soon. The muscles below her navel tighten again and she breathes deep and long. Soon indeed.

The scent of the moss lingers in the air and Ara stands breathes it in, letting whatever powers there may be in the smoke weave themselves around her body. 

“Feel any different?” Blackwall asks quietly.

Ara nods. She feels clearer, lighter than she has in months. Her back aches and her skin is taut and itchy, but her head is clear and her mind focused.

She laces her fingers through Blackwall’s and pulls him to her. Slipping a hand around the base of his neck, she draws his mouth to hers. He is stiff at first, but she presses against him more urgently and he softens against her. He has tried been so gentle, so accommodating since she has been ill, but right now she wants all of him, just once more before everything changes. She kisses him until she knows she has him, until his fingers pull at the loose fabric of her dress and his tongue worries the seam of her lips.

Pulling back, she smiles against his mouth. “Let’s go in.”

Although the air outside is warm, Ara feels her skin tighten when she steps back into her chambers. There is a fire in the grate and she tosses the ashes into it with a puff of smoke, setting the empty plate on the mantelpiece. 

Blackwall is behind her, fingers lingering over her skin as though he cannot bear not to touch her. She turns and slides her hands around his waist. He has been hesitant with her for months, out of some misguided sense of fear she thinks, but she isn’t going to let him be tonight. There is a needy weight low in her belly that has nothing to do with the baby nestled there and everything to do with him and she wants it sated.

“Take me to bed,” she whispers. 

He makes a funny noise in the back of his throat, though his fingers move up to trace her collar bone. “Are you sure?”

Ara walks him backwards towards the bed, pushes him onto it in answer. There is a spark in his eyes that makes her flush more than the heat in the room. 

Blackwall scoots back to the head of the bed and Ara crawls after him, clumsy but determined, and settles on his lap. Her belly is heavy between them, pressed against his. She strokes her fingers through the greying hair at his temples, tracing the shell of his ear and winding down his neck. His eyes fall shut, fingers tightening on her thighs, and Ara can’t help but smile. 

Sighing at the way his fingers dig into her flesh, she gathers her dress up around her waist and urges him higher. Her limbs feel loose, settled on either side of his thighs and she spreads them as wide as they will go. “Touch me.”

He does, slower than she would like, making circles higher and higher up the insides of her thighs with his thumbs. Ara’s breath catches as he finds the place where her legs and body meet and skims along it. She’s wet already, can feel his fingertips slipping against her skin even though he’s still inches away from her slit. Closer and closer, his thumbs creep towards the center of her, not quite where she wants them-where she needs them-but so close. Now is not the time for him to tease. Ara shifts impatiently and grunts, but Blackwall smirks at her and shakes his head. Ara rolls her eyes and presses the heel of her hand against the seam of his trousers in response. He is hot and hard through the fabric, but still not swayed from his teasing. 

After what seems like ages, he slides a finger against her center and presses into her knuckle deep. Ara clamps down around him, willing him to stay there, and moans softly as he curls upward into her heat. Her hips shift restlessly. 

“Please,” she whispers, “please.”

He nods and presses his thumb hard against her throbbing clit and Ara gasps aloud. Her breath comes in gasps, her heart races as he presses against her and she can feel a climax simmering within her. No, she thinks, no, she wants to do this with him inside of her, with him as bare to her as she is to him, just as they began so many months ago. 

“Wait.” Ara lifts up on her knees, tugging her nightdress over her head as she does. Blackwall tosses his own shirt aside, then his trousers. His cock bobs between them. Ara takes it in hand and sinks down onto him, sighing as she does.

Ara thinks back to the night this all started. There are few similarities tonight. Heat washes across her skin rather than cold and she wishes she could pull his face to hers again, look him dead in the eyes as she loses herself in them, but the bulk of her belly lies between them. More than that, though, he is still Blackwall tonight. She doesn’t want that, doesn’t want the honorable Warden now any more than she did then. She doesn’t want Rainier, either, though. She wants Thom, her partner, her husband, and she will ride the man beneath her until she gets him. 

Rolling her hips, Ara drives down onto him until his cock presses deep within her. She grinds against him, pressing her clit into his pubic bone at the apex of her stroke. She rolls again, slower but deeper this time and he groans. 

His fingers stroke along her thighs, urging her faster, but Ara keeps her pace slow and steady. She wants to feel him, every inch of him, as they move together, wants to draw this out as long as she can. She knows he worries as much as she knows now that everything is going to be fine, that they will come out of this whole. Slowly, he comes undone as her hips, her cunt peel away the layers of fear and resolve he has built up. 

“Thom,” she whispers. “Thom.”

Soon, he is rocking up into her, hands brushing circles across the expanse of her stomach, and she pushes down onto him in a heady counterpoint. Her shuddering breaths make her lightheaded and she watches his face, entranced by the intensity she sees mirrored there. 

He stiffens beneath her suddenly, almost surprised by his own orgasm, but Ara isn’t there yet and she grinds down, gritting her teeth. 

“Lean back,” he says, sliding a hand down to the underside of her belly. She does and he slips lower, thumb back against her clit pressing, circling, pressing again as she tightens around him. It’s perfect, wonderful and something in her gives way and Ara cries out as the climax flashes over her. 

Thom’s fingers slow, stroking along both sides of her sex, circling where they are still joined. He doesn’t stop touching her, though, and before long her body tightens around him again, easy and lazy this time. He twitches within her, finally softening and he slips out of her as she rolls onto her side, an aftershock rolling over her. 

True to form, Thom’s eyes blink sleepily as he presses a kiss to her forehead and wraps his arm around her. His breath is slow and steady and Ara listens to it as she feels her own lids grow heavy. Another aftershock hits, tingly and tight, but it lingers, arcing up her stomach and around to her spine.

Oh. _Oh._

Her heart beats faster, but she breathes deep, willing the tiredness to return while she can still rest. A few hours here may make all the difference in the coming days and she closes her eyes and waits for sleep to come.


End file.
